


The Sweater

by stjarna



Series: Writing Prompts / Drabbles / Requests [34]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e07 Chaos Theory, F/M, Missing Scene, Pi's Ficathon, Sunrise scene, The SweaterTM, Tumblr Prompt, Will Daniels implied, angst with a hopeful end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 20:53:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11836860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stjarna/pseuds/stjarna
Summary: Prompt: Simmons wearing Fitz's clothes	(I picked up this "loser" prompt from Pi's 2017 Ficathon but took it a slightly different direction than Pi's initial draft. But I kept it as "The post-Maveth Sweater/Hoodie")





	The Sweater

**Author's Note:**

  * For [memorizingthedigitsofpi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi/gifts).



> Big shout out to @memorizingthedigitsofpi for organizing the Ficathon. It was so much fun to follow along and vote!
> 
> Big thank you to @dilkirani for being my beta.
> 
> Graphic by me

 

It’s quiet. The hallways of the base are deserted, except for a handful of guards still on night shift and a few early birds training in the gym. But the exercise room is too far away for its sounds to reach her, and the guards had already made the rounds in this part of the corridors.

Jemma stands in front of the window, gazing outside. The horizon is still dark, although the slightest shimmer of light seems to be creeping up the horizon.

She wraps her arms around herself, inhaling slowly. Her fingers glide over the fabric of the hoodie, _his_ hoodie, which had become almost like a second skin to her, a security blanket.

She closes her eyes for a moment, taking another deep breath, as her fingers try to commit the feel of the familiar piece of clothing to memory, the texture, each tiny bump where the fabric is pilling.

It’s nothing special.

It’s simple. Basic.

The fabric covering the elbows is already dangerously worn thin. The drawstrings are twisted. The faux metal paint on the zipper is partially chipped off (or chewed off rather; a nervous habit Fitz had shed at some point during his time at the Academy). The sleeves are just a tad too long. It isn’t even the warmest nor softest of materials.

And yet, in the days since her return from Maveth, since she’d held on to Fitz’s hand tighter than she’d ever held on to anything else, since she’d felt tears rushing to her eyes, partly due to the blowing sand and the raging storm biting every piece of her skin, partly because she could feel his grip slipping through her fingers—

Ever since then, ever since Fitz had pulled the sweater out of the back of his closet, helping her into the sleeves, zipping it up, and then wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight, keeping her warm, because even though the temperature in the room was perfectly acceptable, she felt cold to the bones—

Ever since then, the simple heather sweater he’d offered because she’d sat on his bed shivering from shock had become an anchor in her raging world of dark memories, guilt, and grief.

It had become a source of comfort, a home when her thoughts often still tried to run away from her, somehow still tried to run back to that dark place Jemma had so desperately wanted to leave behind.

Her thoughts were still returning to that place because a part of her had never made it back and the guilt hurt her soul like nothing else.

Guilt over keeping a secret from Fitz.

Guilt over breaking a promise to a man she’d learned to love out of sheer desperation.

Guilt over telling Fitz the truth and breaking his heart and her own in the process.

Jemma lets her hands glide over the fabric, her eyes now once again fixed on the horizon, the shimmer of light slowly fighting its way to the surface.

She’d worn the sweater for days now, the pleasant smell of Fitz’s laundry detergent mixed with his aftershave and his natural scent slowly being replaced with the stench of her own sweat.

Yet, Jemma can’t bring herself to take it off. She’s holding on to the sweater because it means she has one part of Fitz she cannot lose. It isn’t the most sensible thing to think, she knows, but somehow it’s what her mind is holding on to.

She realizes of course that telling him was the right thing to do. She couldn’t hide it forever. Shouldn’t have to. He deserved to know the truth.

And yet, Jemma had felt selfish for telling him because she needed his help.

She still feels selfish. Cruel.

She knows the truth had hurt him, would continue to hurt him.

She knows that telling the truth meant she’d admitted that she’d done what he never did: gave up, lost hope, tried to move on without him. That’s what it must look like to him, at least.

When in reality it’s so much more complicated than that.

It’s complicated. And yet simple.

She knows what she wants. Whom she wants. Whom she’s always wanted.

But she can’t allow herself to admit it.

Not yet.

Because then she’d feel like she’s betraying somebody else.

There’s no easy way out of this.

No matter what, someone will get hurt.

Maybe it’d be easiest if that someone were her.

She’d caused all the pain to begin with.

Why not try to absorb it back?

But Jemma can’t let go.

Can’t lose it all.

Can’t lose him.

So she holds on to his sweater, because it means having a piece of him with her.

Jemma’s startled when she hears the quiet footsteps, relieved when she turns around and sees him, smiling shyly at her as he whispers a quiet “Hey.”

“You okay?” he asks, his voice laced with concern.

Of course he’d ask. Of course he’d be concerned.

Of course he knows where to find her.

Of course he knows why she’s standing outside that window.

Of course he keeps a respectful distance, tries not to crowd her.

It’s quiet. It’s peaceful.

“I, uh... I can’t make any promises, but I think I may have found something. Might help us open up the portal.”

“Really?”

Jemma smiles, although she’s not sure if it’s because they might be able to save Will, or because of course Fitz would have kept his promise and found a way.

“I fixed your SIM card, so... I heard your recordings… saw your video.” He sounds almost apologetic.

Most were meant for him of course, the recordings, videos, confessions. And yet Jemma’s heart beats faster, not knowing what had caught his attention the most.

She pulls the sleeves of his hoodie over her hands, tries to wrap herself tighter into his sweater, into his scent.

Suddenly she feels cold again.

“Didn’t know you thought about settling down in Perthshire… That’s in Scotland.”

“I know where it is, Fitz.”

She tries to tease him. Tries to make light of things. Lighter at least.

_Perthshire._

An image flashes before Jemma’s eyes, a strange mix of flashback and vision. She sees that lovely cottage, sitting in the back of her parents’ car, a little girl of six-years-old. And at the same time she sees Fitz and herself sitting on the bench outside the same old building, holding hands, their heads resting against each other’s.

“I mean, you were tired and dehydrated.”

He gives her an out. Of course he would. But Jemma needs him to know.

“I was as clear-headed then as I’ve ever been, when I said all those things.”

The way he looks at her. She can see his love, his hurt, his hope, his confusion.

Jemma wishes she could forget about everything else and kiss him right then and there.

But things aren’t that simple. Not for her. Not for him.

Jemma turns to gaze back out the window when her heart can’t bear his loving eyes any longer.

She wants his love. Wants him. Wants Perthshire.

And yet, she doesn’t feel like she deserves it.

“What do you think we should do about it?” she asks, barely above a whisper.

She’s afraid of his answer.

No matter what it may be, no matter what, someone gets hurt.

“For now... Let’s just watch the sunrise.”

She’s not sure what she feels.

Relief. Disappointment. Happiness.

She’s not sure.

It’s complicated.

Maybe it always would be.

But he’s here. By her side. Helping her any way he can.

_Let’s watch the sunrise._

Together.

Side by side.

She hasn’t lost him. And for the first time in a long time, Jemma feels like she never will.

They stand together until the sun has risen fully above the horizon, almost blinding them, warming their faces, their hearts, their souls.

They look at each other and a smile flashes across Fitz’s face.

Jemma feels as if it reflects back to her, making the corners of her mouth tick up as well.

“How ‘bout breakfast?” Fitz asks quietly, and Jemma can’t help but smile shyly.

“I’d love some tea,” she admits.

Fitz sighs, hesitating for a moment, before taking Jemma’s hand in his and leading her towards the common room area.

She squeezes his hand gently, hoping he’ll feel the silent _thank you_ she’s trying to convey.

“You can keep the sweater by the way,” he remarks dryly, as their arms swing gently back and forth while they walk hand-in-hand down the deserted corridors of the base. “You’ve worn it so long, I think no amount of laundry detergent will get your sweaty stench out of it now.”

Jemma can’t help but laugh out loud.

Later, he walks her back to her bunk before heading to the lab himself.

Jemma closes the door behind herself, taking a few hesitant steps towards the mirror.

She looks at herself and the simple heather sweater. Her hands glide over the fabric, the little bumps formed by pilling. Carefully, she pulls on the drawstrings, before tracing the zipper with her fingers.

He’d given it to her, to keep her warm, keep her safe, to comfort her.

And now he’d told her to keep it.

Somehow he’d told her so much more than that.

She’d never lose him.

Slowly Jemma pulls the sweater off her shoulders, holding it in her hands.

She smiles and her own reflection in the mirror looks so much more at peace than it had for the past few days that it warms her heart.

She brings the scrunched up hoodie to her nose, inhaling deeply, and grimacing in disgust when she realizes just how badly the smell had become.

Jemma chuckles and tosses the hoodie in the laundry basket, before grabbing fresh clothes from the closet and heading for the bathroom to shower.


End file.
